Pools Can Be Fun
by jahmat
Summary: The first two weeks at camp were truly painful for Wilson. Find out how! Spoilers: None. Well, one, but if I tell you it'll ruin the ending! Warnings: Established relationship, suggestive ice cream indulgence, some M/M snuggling. Nothing overt. Disclaimer: DS and Fox own everything House. I'd like to lease RSL, but you can't always get what you want!


A/N 1: Written for Camp Sick!Wilson's ABC to XYZ Challenge. The 26 words we could use were:

A – alligator N – nail  
B - bear trap O – outhouse  
C – campfire P – porcupine  
D – duck Q - quicksand  
E – electricity R - river  
F – forest S - snake  
G – gopher T – teepee  
H – hammock U - umbrella  
I – island V - vulture  
J – jellyfish W - water gun  
K – knife X - xenolith  
L – lake Y - yearling  
M – moose Z – zipper

H/W

It wasn't that he was paranoid, but after only two weeks of camp, Wilson knew someone or something was out to get him. Whenever he stepped outside his cabin he felt the **vultures** this place called "campers" watching him, waiting for something catastrophic to happen so they could swoop in en masse to "nurse him back to health."

It was bad enough House had turned into his own personal body guard/nursemaid. Wilson couldn't get a sliver in his finger without his overly-protective partner grabbing his hand to take care of the injury.

But the campers were something else entirely. It was like they had cameras hidden all around the camp. All he had to do was stub his toe or sprain his wrist and five or six of them would suddenly appear, ice pack, band aid, or ace bandage in hand to "help him feel better."

He really _wasn't_ paranoid, but over the past two weeks he had been treed by an opossum, bitten by a snapping turtle, and suffered a concussion while trying to help his best friend, to name a few of his misadventures.

Not that he could blame the campers for any of those accidents - things just seemed to happen to him - but he wanted to protect himself, just in case anything worse happened.

Unfortunately, the only weapons he had access to were **water guns**, safely tucked away in the **zippered** section of House's backpack, and he doubted using those would do much more than get House mad at him for ruining his plans for a surprise wet t-shirt contest.

It would be nice to have a proper weapon, though, Wilson thought: a good Bowie** knife** or a machete, even a Swiss Army knife. Not that he'd really use a weapon against the horde…er, _dangers_ he might face in this wilderness.

It just seemed that something was always happening to him.

When they had arrived Sunday afternoon he had sprained his ankle when he stepped into a **gopher** hole while carrying their bags to their cabin, then spent the next 24 hours in the camp's infirmary.

And, to add salt to his injury, House had shouted, "Hot damn! I won the First Injury Pool. Fifty bucks!" as Wilson lay on the ground, clutching his ankle in pain.

On the second Tuesday, the **hammock** he had been sleeping in on the **lake's island** (where he had gone to get away from the eyes that he _knew_ were watching his every move) had come mysteriously untied, resulting in a bruised ass and a badly swollen, agonizingly painful, left elbow. As he used his shirt to make a sling for his arm, he growled angrily. He _knew_ someone had snuck onto the island and untied the pipe-hitch knots he had used to secure the hammock to two pine trees. Could he have tied them wrong? Of course not! He'd been an Eagle Scout, after all!

And getting back to camp? Have you ever used only your non-dominant arm to paddle across a choppy lake as waves buffeted and tossed you until your insides felt like you'd eaten a raw **jellyfish**?

Add to that the fact that you were forced to kneel in the middle of the wildly rocking boat because your butt was so sore sitting made your eyes water?

And then there was the rainwater which made it almost impossible to see anything, even the front of the canoe.

What he would have given for one of those ridiculous** umbrella** hats he had seen at the camp's store, right beside the **duck** hats, **alligator** floatees, and **porcupine** hair brushes!

As a result of the storm and his injuries, the 30-minute leisurely canoe voyage _to_ the island had become an exhausting, agonizing, hour-long ordeal _back_. His right arm and all of his leg muscles were on fire, his lungs were heaving like bellows, and a migraine was making his head feel as if it was about to explode.

He ended up in the infirmary for two full days this time with House as his nursemaid/tormentor. To make matters worse, House "entertained" him by blaring the Israeli band **Xenolith's** death metal music from his iPod speakers. The screaming noise that the group called music made Wilson's migraine even worse. When he tried to disconnect the speakers from the iPod, a shot of **electricity **made him jerk back, knocking House's iPod onto the floor.

Of course, House didn't believe him about being shocked. He accused Wilson of breaking the iPod on purpose and stomped off, fuming, only to return an hour later, still whining over his precious toy.

After a cold night in his lonely bunk, Wilson gave in, promising to replace the iPod and House had finally "forgiven" him.

'God, he was like an eight-year-old, sometimes!' Wilson sighed silently.

Wilson was finally released Friday morning, just in time to participate in the camp's ten-mile hike. House, of course, would not be going on the hike, but promised he would be waiting at the Visitor's Center at the end of the trail to give some of the hikers a ride back to camp.

Three straight days of rain the week before camp opened made the hikers briefly reconsider their trek. Previous hikers had reported wide, rain-covered areas along the normal paths. As a result, Wilson and the ten other hikers knew they might have a longer hike. They decided to go anyway and left immediately after breakfast.

When they approached the first water-soaked area, one of the counselors mentioned that the edges of these water traps sometimes felt like **quicksand** and added that water **snakes** might be swimming in the water.

Needless to say, Wilson and the other campers were more than willing to take a detour in order to avoid the water hazards," some covering 20 yards of the path..

The first detour path was partially overgrown, so, ever the gentleman, Wilson volunteered to be the path finder, well, path clearer, actually. He found a large fallen branch to use as a walking stick and took the lead.

He valiantly led the way, bending back branches and pointing out new ground growth to the camper directly behind him, who relayed the information on to the camper behind her, each camper passing on the safety warnings to the next person.

The going was slow, but the detours weren't very long and Wilson was really getting into his role as a 21st century reincarnation of James Fenimore Cooper's Hawkeye.

The Last of the Mohicans had been one of his favorite books as a kid and he had spent many hours on his grandparents' farm exploring the **forest** with Danny. They would head into the woods after an early breakfast, Boy Scout canteen attached to their belts, and return to the farmhouse at dinner time, famished and full of tales of their adventures.

Wilson lost himself in the memories as they continued their hike. In his mind he and Danny were 10-year-olds Natty Bumpos again, hunting deer to feed their families and setting **bear traps** so they would have warm coats for the cold winters.

He remembered the** yearling** deer they had come upon in a glade late one autumn day. The deer had turned as they approached, its deep brown eyes regarding them without fear. He and Danny froze in their tracks, both holding their breaths, in awe at the sight, until a sound spooked the deer and it bolted.

The boys watched the white tail bounding away into the forest's depths, then turned towards each other, their eyes still filled with wonder. Wilson saw the deep dimple appear on Danny's right cheek and felt his own face spread in a nearly identical grin. The dimples were the only way he and Danny were different in appearance, his on the left and Danny's on the right.

That memory had helped Wilson through some rough nights in later years when Danny's schizophrenia symptoms began to manifest themselves. And even more when Danny disappeared.

He trekked on, lost track in the memories, and was startled when the campers let out a joyous whoop. He looked up and saw the tops of the **Teepee**-shaped Visitor Center buildings above the shorter trees along the forest's edge. They hurried along the final 50 yards and then walked happily into the open.

House, who was sitting at the Center's ice cream stand some 30 feet away with a triple-decker cone in his hand, looked up at the hikers and waved.

Wilson watched as House grinned wickedly at him, then turned his attention back to his creamy treat. He licked the ice cream from cone to tip several times, slowly and sensually, his laughing blue eyes never leaving Wilson's fascinated brown ones.

Wilson felt his face go red and looked down at the ground.

'Damn pervert,' he thought, but felt himself grinning anyway. He wouldn't have the diagnostician any other way.

When the hikers reached the ice cream stand they collapsed onto the grass while Wilson sat down next to his partner who wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"Injury free?" House asked.

"Uh huh," Wilson answered, leaning heavily against House.

"Damn," House sighed, kissing the top of Wilson's slightly damp head. "I hoped the campers would be sharing stories about your Misadventures in Hiking around the **campfire** tonight."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but there were no **outhouse **incidents and I didn't break a **nail**. It was a safe hike."

"Okay," House said.

Wilson pulled back and stared at the diagnostician who looked quickly away.

"There was a betting pool, wasn't there?" Wilson said.

"Would we do anything like that?" House said, trying for innocence, but failing miserably.

"You're lying! There was a pool on how I'd get hurt!"

He stood up and glared around at his fellow hikers who suddenly found other things to look at.

He turned back to House. "Just for curiosity's sake, House, what was your bet?"

"Aw, Wilson, it's irrelevant now. Let it go."

Wilson stood there, his fists planted firmly on his hips, waiting.

"Oh, for the love of…" House ground out. "Okay, but first you have to know that the campers made up some really stupid and unbelievable scenarios. We chose them by lottery and decided that, if nobody wins, the money's gonna go to the Jimmy Fund. You know, the Red Sox's kid's cancer fund? It's one of your favorite charities, right?"

No response.

House cleared his throat. "Well, anyway, I got one of the dumbest scenarios. Sometimes I wonder where these women get their ideas from!"

Wilson just kept glaring.

Then House paused, staring vacantly off into the distance.

Wilson watched, amazed as always, as the moment of epiphany arrived.

A wide grin lit up House's eyes.

"Actually, my scenario already happened!" he laughed.

"House," Wilson demanded, "tell me your damned bet!"

"Oh, Wilson! You're gonna love it! It was '**Moose** on a Jew!'"


End file.
